


slow dancing in a burning room

by virgohotspot



Series: wear me down [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Porn, Break Up, Break up sex, Emotional Sex, Exes, F/M, Kind of Divorced Bellarke, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Unsafe Sex, high school sweethearts, married Bellarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:13:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26240197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virgohotspot/pseuds/virgohotspot
Summary: Bellamy doesn't know how he and Clarke, his high school sweetheart, the love of his life, got here. After three years of marriage, they're heading for divorce. But Bellamy isn't ready to let her go.Or, Bellamy and Clarke have post-break up/pre-divorce sex
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: wear me down [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063127
Comments: 22
Kudos: 151





	slow dancing in a burning room

The purple suitcase standing idly in the doorway of their – his – bedroom is the first thing Bellamy sees when he walks through the door. His heart plummets to the pits of his stomach, now seemingly empty compared to seconds ago, when piles of junk food filled his belly. Miller took him out for dinner, something greasy and cheap somewhere downtown, intending to help his best friend out of his rut. It worked, for the few hours they were out, but Bellamy knew when he returned home the immense dread, impending sadness would only cloud his chest once more. However, he didn’t expect the surprise caused by the purple suitcase.

He didn’t know she would be here tonight.

Bellamy tiptoes down the hall, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet with each step. He can hear her fuss about, probably has her headphones in, cancelling out the external sound, making her believe time is going by quicker, that she won’t have to be in this shithole that crumbles with each breath any longer. She was never in love with this place, it was always just what they could afford. It’s no wonder she’s the one packing up, the one moving out, escaping their lives and the memories of them that have coated these walls for three years.

Etching into the doorway, Bellamy’s careful not to disturb the purple suitcase as he leans against the wooden frame. It whines beneath his weight, but does nothing to disrupt the pair, lodged on opposite sides of their – _his_ – bedroom. It’s dark, all the lights off, only illumination streaming through the streetlights outside, but he sees right away that he’s correct. Clarke’s headphones are wedged into her ears, and this close he can hear the hum of a podcast echoing through her eardrums. She’s leaning over the dresser, huddling some shirts into her grasp, nimble and quick and unaware of his presence. He resists the upward tug of his lips, too focused on the soft whisper of her voice, commenting to herself amidst the content-heavy jumble playing in her ears.

“Shirts are clean,” Clarke mumbles. She can’t hear herself say it, but it settles in her brain, Bellamy confirms with the swift nod of her head. “Pants in the laundry.” Clarke straightens. “Get the pants from the–” She turns. “Laundry.”

The shirts collected in her arms squeeze to her chest, Clarke’s eyes widening in animation. His chest tightens at the sight of her, at being able to really look at her for the first time in weeks. Her hair is down, flowing down her back in messy, uncombed waves framing the blue peer of her eyes. She’s free of makeup, skin porcelain and clear – it doesn’t look like she’s been crying. Bellamy’s jaw tightens when his gaze lands on her oversized jersey, hanging past her hips, leaving only a sliver of cotton shorts exposed before unveiling her long, creamy thighs. He’d spent more time admiring her legs, but his glare remains firm on his high school football jersey hugging her body.

Clarke takes her earbuds out of her ears as his eyes flicker up to meet hers. “I thought you had the night shift on Tuesdays.”

“Day off,” Bellamy states bluntly. “I was with Miller.”

“You’re back early. It’s only eleven.”

“Should I have stayed away from my own apartment longer?”

Clarke swallows, hesitating only the slightest bit before she walks over to their – _HIS –_ bed. She sprawls them out across the unmade covers, delicately picking up one – her pink camisole – and folding it gently. She stares down at it, doesn’t look up at him.

“I found a place,” she says it quietly, almost as if she’s afraid that if she says it any louder, he’ll crumble at her feet. “It’s near the art gallery. I could walk there.”

Bellamy scoffs. She would always complain about the thirty minute commute from their apartment to her workplace. The bus was a scary place, she commented once, so Bellamy started driving her to work every morning. It got more difficult in the winter, the thick snow elongating their drive, but he rather her whine beside him than shiver on some bus with strangers. He could never pick her up, though. He’d always be working when she got off.

If Clarke picks up on his hastiness, she doesn’t acknowledge it. She moves on to the next shirt, eyes averting his gaze, delicately folding and stacking her items on top of one another. Bellamy glances at the suitcase at his feet, standing up straight, zipped up tight. He wonders if she has any other bags, and that’s what she’s shoving these shirts into. The suitcase appears full to the brim, and apparently there’s pants in the laundry.

He can’t ignore the way his heart lurches. Bellamy lifts his head back at Clarke, nearly complete with folding her clothes. Her hair falls over her face in curtains, shielding her expression. She chopped her hair about a year ago, and it’s already grown back just past her shoulders. It’s not the golden mane she sported in high school, reaching right past her chest, but it still shines and glistens and makes Bellamy want to fist his hand through it.

Everything about this makes him want to scream. The purple suitcase, Clarke idly folding clothes on their – his, HIS – bed, her unstained expression, the nearly emptied drawers, his _fucking_ jersey hanging off her body. The fact that tonight, he’s going to sleep in this bed alone, after hours of agonizing tears and she’ll be in an Uber, to her new home, starting her new life without any thought of him passing through her mind.

Tentatively, Bellamy takes steps forward. Clarke lifts her head immediately, eyeing him with caution. She traces him as he saunters over, his painstakingly slow pace mocking her. He waltzes over to the dresser, allowing the wooden edge to dig into his lower back, arms crossed over his chest, meeting Clarke’s gaze. Her hair is flipped over her shoulder, watching him. He merely looks on, face blank, stare intense.

Clarke’s the one to break away first. She always is. She dips her head back towards the clothes, any argument she had in her dying on her lips. Bellamy’s a little disappointed.

“Nice jersey,” Bellamy quips.

Clarke gauges his intent to instigate. “You haven’t worn this jersey since senior year.”

“Final game of the season,” Bellamy recalls, eyes sparkling, voice fond. “The night I proposed.”

Clarke visibly stiffens, he notes the way she pauses. She recovers rather quickly, albeit not smoothly, hesitantly returning her attention back to her stack of clothes. Her pace is a little slower now, Bellamy realizes as she fumbles with her folding techniques; the ones she’s usually so precise about, always chiding him for his lazy habits of shoving clothes into wherever they seem to fit.

“You remember that night?” Bellamy tries again. He knows she remembers. “We skipped out on the after party. Walking by the lake, a couple minutes away from the school–”

“Stop,” Clarke snaps, stilling in place. She’s hunched over the bed, palms pressed against the softness of a red, folded sweater. Her fingers gather the material in her hands, wrinkling the fabric. “Just stop, Bellamy.”

“What’s wrong, baby?” Bellamy challenges, voice booming. The familiarity of the nickname does something, her knuckles turning white, contrasting against the red of the sweater even in the darkness of the bedroom. “Can’t handle a trip down memory lane?”

Her head lifts but not to look back at him. He watches as she takes a shaky breath, imagines that her eyes are closed as she does it. “A trip down memory lane won’t do anything, Bellamy. We’re beyond any more fixes.”

“That’s because you’re giving up,” Bellamy accuses her, voice dripping with betrayal. “You don’t want to find fixes.”

Clarke spins around, red sweater in her clutch, blocking the Arkadia High logo on his jersey. Her eyes flash at him angrily, mouth twisted into a scowl. “Fixes? You honestly think we can fix this mess?”

“Yeah, I do, if you’d just stay instead of–”

“I’ve already filed the papers, Bellamy.”

“God, Clarke, it can’t be over just because you say it is!”

“Bellamy, it’s been three years! We tried it. It didn’t work–”

“You act like it’s always been like this. We were happy–”

“I don’t remember how long it’s been since we were _happy_ ,” Clarke chuckles bitterly, although it comes out choked. Bellamy feels his eyes burn as she plunges the knife deeper, “We lived in a fairytale for too long, Bellamy. We’re adults now. It’s time we start acting like it.”

Their wedding was a fairytale. Just hours after graduation, the two fresh high school graduates hauled themselves to town hall, not a whisper of their plans to their parents or even most of their friends. Bellamy recruited Miller while Clarke swore her friend, Raven to secrecy, the two acting as witnesses while the pair legally married. And less than an hour after it was official, ran off to a secluded small town away from Arkadia to consummate and start their lives together in the midst of the laughter and smiles and absolute love that they shared.

Bellamy really can’t pinpoint how they got from there to here. There was no specific moment, no big cause of betrayal. It was gradual, slow, painfully slow, making it even more excruciating when Clarke blew up at him in the midst of one of their many common arguments, demanding a divorce.

Clarke’s chest heaves as she glares at Bellamy, and he stares just as intently back, trying to match the fire that’s radiating off of her. But he keeps getting caught up in the blueness of her eyes, in a desperate search to find the love for him that used to reside there.

She turns before he can find it. Although, he’s afraid to have had more time to figure it out.

A frustrated huff escapes Clarke’s lips as she lays out the red sweater on the bed once more. She resumes her attempt at folding, although there’s an obvious shake to her limbs. Bellamy’s gaze softens, contradicting the hard beat of his heart and with her back turned to him, all he wants to do is reach out for her. To feel the softness of her skin against the roughness of his hands, to taste the flavor of her skin, to hold her in his arms for one more fleeing moment.

Bellamy dares to take another step forward, closing any gap between the two. His crotch is pressed up against her ass, and just as Clarke straightens to attention at the presence, his arms wrap around her place, head dips into the juncture of her neck and her shoulder. Clarke gasps as his teeth sink into that juncture, before Bellamy begins to leave a trail of wet, sloppy kisses up her neck.

Clarke attempts to suppress her moan, but Bellamy can feel the vibrations shuttering throughout his mouth. “Bellamy–”

“Hm,” he coaxes her, tightening his grip around her waist.

“We can’t–”

“Can’t what?”

“Do this.”

“Do this?” Bellamy leans his cheek against her head, breath hot against her hear as his hand trails down his jersey that she’s wearing, shuffling under the seams to the waistband of her shorts. Clarke mewls as Bellamy’s index and middle finger find her clit, rubbing slow, agonizing circles. He nibbles on her earlobe, muttering in between, “You know we can’t leave it like this, baby.”

It’s patronizing and teasing, and Bellamy means it that way, because it pisses her off almost as much as it turns her on. She arches into him as his fingers press against her clit, picking up the pace as he circles. A soft moan escapes her lips and Bellamy feels his dick stir, a chuckle escaping his lips and brushing against her neck. He feels her shiver against him, readjusting his grip around her waist to hold her up right while she jerks into his touch.

Bellamy’s heart aches more than his cock does. It yearns for Clarke, beats for her and in a few hours, it’ll only function on the mere memory of her. But for now, for this moment, if this is the only way he can have her, even if it’s the last time, he’ll savor it.

“Oh baby,” Bellamy coos, his hand travelling deeper into her shorts, running his index finger along her slit. “You’re always so wet for me. Such a good girl.”

Clarke leans into him at the praise, just as Bellamy removes his hand from her shorts. She whimpers in protest, and the sense of pride filling Bellamy’s chest because of it should be sinful. He yanks down her shorts along with a pair of cotton panties to go along with it, barely allowing them to pool at her ankles before he spins her around to face him, grip tightening on her hips to keep her in place.

Her big, blue eyes stare up at him, feigning innocence, pretending to be naïve, like she doesn’t know what’s about to happen next. Bellamy licks his lips, surveying over her, standing naked aside from his fucking football jersey that just looks ten million times better on her than it ever did on him. He hopes she’ll keep it. But he also wishes he could keep her guessing, edging her until she can’t take it anymore, but his cock is undeniably aching, just as much as his heart is.

Bellamy places his hands on the back of her thighs, scooping her into his arms in one whisk. Her legs instantly tighten around his torso as she clasps her hands around his neck. She doesn’t need to keep balance, Bellamy cradling her in his arms for just a moment before he walks to the higher side of the bed, away from the folded clothes that will inevitably be wrinkled and slams her against it. She’s barely sprawled across the covers before he’s climbing on top of her, sinking his head down to rest in between her legs.

Clarke reaches down to the hem of the jersey, arching her back to remove it from her body. Bellamy’s head snaps upwards just as his hand jerks over to catch her wrist. Clarke looks down at him in surprise, her pretty eyes peering at him in concern. He, somehow, manages to keep a straight face, refrains from allowing any tears to form.

“Keep it on,” he orders.

Clarke nods hurriedly.

“That’s my baby.”

Bellamy lets go of her wrist, watching as Clarke goes to grip the covers instead. He dips his head back in between her legs, lightly pressing kisses up the inner end of her thigh. She’s already shaking, and his mouth isn’t anywhere near her cunt yet. He palms at her bare thighs, feels the softness of her skin in between the roughness of his fingers before turning his attention to her glistening pussy.

“Baby,” Bellamy coos, ghosting his fingers against her slit in admiration. “You’re have such a pretty pussy, baby. It’s never going to leave my mind.”

“Bell,” the nickname that falls from her lips makes his heart jump. “Touch me.”

As if he’d ever deny her. Bellamy licks one, tentative stripe up her slit without warning, a hearty gasp escaping from Clarke’s lips. He picks up a rhythm from there, fingers going to circle her clit while he tongues at her entrance. Clarke grasps at his curls, urging him forward. He quickens his tongue, earning motivation from Clarke’s little gasps and moans. After five years together and three of marriage, he’d never tire of hearing it. Each time his tongue prods into her, she makes a harmonious sound, and he tries to memorize it – prays he’ll never forget it.

Clarke’s little sounds are almost as sweet as she tastes. Bellamy could eat her out for the rest of his life, probably would have if she didn’t want _this_. The thought of their current reality causes him to enclose his lips around her clit, holding on to the one, physical attribute of hers that he can keep in close proximity.

Another moan erupts from her lips, loud and echoing off the walls of their – his, this is his – bedroom. Bellamy barely lets her finish that sound before he sinks two fingers into her, and she’s already starting a new moan. This time, her sounds are constant, a mewl after a moan without a linger of silence as his fingers pump a steady pace inside of her, his tongue flicking wildly against her clit.

Bellamy feels her walls tighten around his fingers, suckling on her clit as she clambers off the edge. His eyes flick up to watch her, another sight he’s hellbent on memorizing. Clarke’s body aches off of the mattress, eyes flutter closed, mouth open in a perfect O shape, cheeks flushed and forehead dampened with beads of sweat and golden locks stuck to her temple. Bellamy manages to keep his pace, although he’s star struck by the sight of her, still, even after all these years, even though she’s sending him fucking divorce papers.

He draws his fingers out of her slowly, but keeps his tongue flicking slowly against her clit, maneuvering her through her orgasm. As Clarke catches her breath, her back returning back to the softness of the mattress, Bellamy removes his lips from her. He sits up on his knees before her, licking his lips to savor every bit of her juice, his eyes glued to her breathless state. Her eyes flutter open, although half-lidded, but she’s staring up at him. She aches for him, just like how he aches for her.

“Bell,” Clarke breathes. “I want more of you.”

“You’re going to get more of me, baby,” Bellamy assures her, placing his hand beside her head to lean down and give her a wet, sloppy kiss on her forehead. He lifts his head, resting his forehead against hers, darkness of his eyes pouring into her light ones. His thumb reaches up, traces the outline of her lips, ever so slowly. “Baby, you can have me forever.”

Clarke gulps, and Bellamy knows she won’t say anything in reply. Nothing she could say would fix anything, much less make him feel any better about any of this. Instead, he continues tracing her lower lip, his rough thumb colliding with her moistened lips, eyes still locked. To his surprise, Clarke finds the strength to reach her hand up, ghost her fingers along the freckles that pattern his face. He transfixed on her, watching as she’s mesmerized by the features of his face. He wonders if she’s trying to memorize him, too.

“I need you to fuck me now,” Clarke meets his eyes again.

“Anything for you, baby,” Bellamy tells her, voice breaking in between, eyes beginning to burn. He just wants her to know, “I’d do anything for you.”

Instead of gracing him with a response, Clarke leans up, capturing the tear that escapes Bellamy’s eyes with her mouth. It’s a short peck, but her lips leave an imprint just under his eye, causing his breath to become shaky, his body to shiver, his eyes to flutter closed. He wishes he could feel the touch of her lips against his cheek for the rest of his life, replaying the feeling over and over again in his mind for the short amount of time that they have together now.

When Bellamy finally opens his eyes, Clarke’s lying back down, looking up at him, waiting patiently. It reminds him of their high school days, tucked in his single bed after football practice, before his mom came home from work. Clarke, lying on the bed, locks of hair sprawled out beneath her, in nothing but his Arkadia High football jersey, gazing up at him like he’s everything and all, waiting on his every move. His heart aches as his cock twitches, and all he can do is lean down and capture her lips in one, last savory kiss.

It’s a hassle removing his pants. Bellamy only removes his mouth from her once, to remove his t-shirt, but he struggles with his jeans, kicking them off while deepening his lips against hers. Clarke brings both her hands up to cup his cheeks, just as desperate as he is, using her own feet to kick his jeans and boxers off of his ankles. He doesn’t even have to tear away from her to position his cock against her entrance, purely content with sliding himself into her while their lips are still interlocked.

“Fuck,” Clarke mumbles between his lips as he etches into her. He picks up a pace rather quickly, having already learned what makes her feel the greatest in every possible way. “Fuck, Bell. You always fuck me so good.”

“Yeah, baby?” Bellamy’s lips are still a top of hers as he begins pounding into her. She yelps and moans against his lips, but it’s not enough. “You’re going to miss this, aren’t you? Who’s going to fuck you like I do? Who’s going to make you feel this good?”

Clarke only moans in response. Bellamy’s jaw tightens, fully pulling out of her before slamming back into her, hard. “Answer me.”

“I am going to miss you,” Clarke cries out. “I’m going to miss you so fucking much, baby. I miss you already, _fuck_.”

“You’re mine. You know that? Even when you walk out that doors, even when you sign those _fucking_ papers, you’ll always be my baby.”

“I know, I know, _fuck_. I’m yours. Always fucking yours.”

Bellamy’s relentless, his pace only quickening as Clarke’s words of affirmation only make his heart crack more. He places one hand beside her head, another fisting the jersey into his palm and continues slamming into her, making her moan and cry and scream and fill his head with all her sounds that he’ll spend the rest of his life replaying in his head.

“You’re so fucking tight, even after all this time, always so fucking tight for me,” Bellamy doesn’t let up, pounding the love of his life with every ounce of strength in him, despite the overwhelming desire to collapse into sobs in her arms. “God, I love you. More than anything, baby.”

He feels her walls tighten around his cock, retracting his hand from the bunched up jersey to circle at her clit. Clarke wraps her legs around his torso, clinging onto him for dear life, sending him into a haze as she pulsates around his cock. He ducks his head into the crook of her shoulder, releasing himself inside of her just seconds after she comes. Finally, Bellamy allows his body to collapse against hers, lets the scratchiness of his jersey rub up against the bareness of his chest.

“Stay,” Bellamy pleads, mouth mumbling against her neck. “Please stay, baby.”

It’s an empty plea. He doesn’t have to search in her eyes or wait for a response. This is the woman he’s been with since he was sixteen, the woman he married at eighteen, the woman that’s divorce him at twenty one. He knows well enough now that her mind is made up, even as they curl beneath the covers and as Clarke snuggles into the security of his grasp.

There’s a dull, morning grey casting a shadow in his bedroom when Bellamy wakes up that morning. The other side of the mattress is empty, his high school football jersey is folded neatly at the foot of the bed and the purple suitcase is no longer standing idly in the doorway.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


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